And We Will Never Be Afraid Again
by Lunar Resonance
Summary: AU. Maka was born with a powerful magic. So powerful that people would kill to have it. Her mother contrives a successful escape the first time but the next time sets off events that will change Maka's life forever.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This an AU based off a dream I had. I have a general idea of where it's headed but chapter updates might take a while. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it!

Lunar

* * *

"Words are power."

Those are the first words Maka remembers hearing from her mother and they're also the last words she ever hears from her.

The first time she heard them, she was three and the words were a lesson.

Without warning, Mama made her run out of the castle they had called home and into the backwoods of Lord Albarn's territory. She had dragged Maka along until Maka (scarcely prepared for the sudden trek into nowhere in the middle of winter) had stumbled in the snow.

She had cried as Kami scooped her up, brushing off the snow from Maka with a hand barely covered by a worn and tattered glove.

Then Kami had jogged in the snow until the sun, which had barely started setting when Maka and her mother had stumbled out of the castle, had fully set and the moon had started to rise, a jagged grin across the opaque sky.

Kami set Maka down on a fallen log, clearing the snow with a sweep of her arm. By now Maka had stopped crying and was watching curiously as Kami rummaged in the old bag she had strapped across her shoulders.

With slowly bluing fingers, Kami pulled a piece of paper. Then she cleared a small area in front of where Maka sat.

Maka gasped when she saw Kami bite down on her pointer finger hard. With a shake of her head and a slight smile, Kami silenced her.

A tiny pool of blood gathered at the tip of Kami's finger. Carefully, she marked the paper in runes that Maka had never seen before.

When she finished, Kami placed the paper in the center of the circle and blew gently. "Words are power," she whispered to Maka as the dull red of her blood runes glimmered and changed to a bright red-orange.

With a crackle, the paper caught fire.

Maka's eyes widened. "But doesn't it need wood?"

Kami gave her a smile. "Magic doesn't need wood."

Her eyes grow even wider. "Can you teach me how to do that?"

Kami took a seat next to her daughter. "You already know how."

Maka frowned. "Is it what I did at home?"

A shadow crossed Kami's face. "Yes."

Maka's frown deepened. "Is that why we had to leave? Because of me?"

Kami brushed the hair from Maka's face. "No, love. We would have had to leave soon anyways. Since you were born, I knew you were going to be a powerful Word Mage."

The words "Word Mage" are foreign to Maka but powerful she knows.

Powerful means setting words on fire. She grinned.

Then her grin faded. Powerful means what she did to that boy.

"Will you teach me to control it?" she asked her mother pleadingly.

To her immense relief, her mama nods. "Tomorrow. But first, let me show you something."

Kami reached back into the bag and pulled out a book. It's rather plain looking, with a unmarked black cover. She handed it to Maka.

Maka opened it. The first pages are covered in the runes her mama wrote on the paper but the greater part of the book is blank.

She looked at Kami. "Why is it almost blank?"

"Because while words are power, what you write the words on is of equal importance. This is the best paper to practice your magic on in existence as well as your best teacher."

Maka looked at the book with newfound reverence. "How did you get it?"

"I stole it." There's no regret in Kami's voice.

Maka gasped as her mother destroys the pedestal Maka had put her own. "You said stealing was wrong!"

Kami laughs at Maka's horrified expression. "It's rightfully yours."

"How?" Maka demanded.

"I'll explain when you're older," Kami replied. She chuckled at Maka's pout. "Trust me, Maka."

"Okay," Maka said doubtfully. "But you better keep your promise."

"Deal. Now lean on me and go to sleep," Kami said, pulling Maka into her arms. "And Maka?"

"Yes, Mama?" Maka answered sleepily, already settled into her mother's arms.

"Never use that book for magic unless it's an emergency, okay?"

"Okay," Maka yawned.

* * *

The eve before Maka's tenth birthday, the emergency finally comes.

It comes in the form of sharp horse hooves banging against the cobblestone path Maka and her mother had just laid down two weeks ago. Clenched fists bang down on the door to the hut they call home.

Maka panics but Kami doesn't.

She merely takes down the old black book and the old bag from long ago from the bookshelf in their small living room and hands both to Maka.

"It's an emergency," Kami simply says.

One look at her mother's face and Maka knows she won't leave with her.

She tries anyways. "Please?"

Kami shoves her, not unkindly, to the desk besides the bookshelf. "There's enough money in there to last you a month."

Maka chokes on her tears because she doesn't want her last vision of her mother to be blurred by tears. With trembling hands, she takes the quill from ink well on the desk and begins to write.

As she finishes the last rune and the words glow bright white, she takes one last glance at her mother.

Kami's sealed the door shut with words but that doesn't stop the axe from going through the door.

At the same moment, Kami looks at Maka as well.

"Words are power!" she yells as the axe finally breaks down the door and the white glow of the runes takes Maka far away from danger and her mother.

She's taken to the edge of the forest and it's there that she falls to her knees and lets the tears flow freely.

Words are power. The first time her mother told her them as a lesson and the last as a warning.

* * *

Maka simply refuses to move on from the forest she transported herself to, leaning against the trunk of a tree for support. Hot tears slide down her face. They leave damp spots on the old black book in her hands.

She stares at it for a moment and then she hurls it as far away from her as possible. _It's her fault her mother's dead, _she thinks, tears leaking out again.

The trees around her create a wall, sealing her in her grief, and the leaves are bound so tightly together that it casts a permanent shadow onto her, slowly seeping into her soul. The sun, which is high in the sky, slowly makes its descent into the horizon. Darkness stealthily creeps in like tiny fairies that lived around her and Kami's house would sneak into their garden.

The tears that ran down her face have run dry but the hole in her chest her mother's death ripped open rubs its jagged edges against her soul.

It hurts so much that it leaves her breathless.

She rolls onto her side, staring at the wall of trees but seeing nothing. Maka curls up her legs and hooks her arms around them, trying to keep the pieces of her together.

Her mother's bag pokes uncomfortably into her back, prodding her to get moving. Maka tightens her grip around her knees.

There's nowhere she wants to go now.

* * *

"Nyah, what do we have here?"

Maka blinks uninterestedly. Normally, a talking cat would have her bouncing in excitement but today is not a normal day.

The purple cat in front of her disappears with a poof and in its place stands a purple-haired woman.

Smoothing her purple dress, the woman frowns. "Nyah, you're no fun-that always gets people riled up!"

With a Herculean effort, Maka pries off her mother's bag. "Take what you want and leave me alone." She nestles her face into her arms, shutting her eyes.

"Hmmm."

Maka feels the woman take the bag but she doesn't hear her walking away.

Then suddenly Maka's swung from the ground and over the woman's shoulder.

Maka's eyes fly open. "What are you doing?" she shrieks at the woman, straining her head to look at her. She pounds her fists against the woman's back. "Let me go!"

"Sorry, Blair can't do that!" the woman apparently called Blair says in a sing-song voice. "You need my help, little kitten."

Maka continues to struggle. "I'm not your little kitten! Just take my stuff and let me go!"

Blair giggles. "The only people I steal from are men." There's a noise of her walking on something hard instead of the crunch of dead leaves. She bends down and picks something up. "What's this? Is this yours?"

"I can't see anything but your back," Maka growls.

"Oh, that's right! Be good now, little kitten."

Maka's world becomes right-side up again as Blair puts her down. Immediately, she attempts to swerve around Blair but she feels an invisible rope pulling her back.

Blair shakes a finger at her. "What did I say, little kitten?"

"My name is Maka!" She tries to run away again but she keeps getting tugged back. She takes in the black book that's in Blair's other hand. "And I don't want that!"

Blair bends down to look Maka in the eyes. "Tell me, Maka, what's a pretty child like you wandering around a place like this?"

The events of the day squeeze Maka's throat shut like a vice. She looks down at the ground.

Blair's hand gently tips up Maka's face. Her eyes, golden and catlike, gaze kindly into Maka's green ones. "What's wrong, little kitten?"

The concern in Blair's face is too much like her mother's. With a wail, Maka throws her arms around Blair's neck and begins to cry, sobs shaking her entire body.

"There, there," Blair murmurs comfortingly, rubbing circles on Maka's back. "Blair will take care of you."


	2. Chapter 2

Maka doesn't protest this time when Blair picks her up. She wraps her arms tightly around Blair, the hole in her chest stinging once again. Words float out of Blair's mouth, almost like a song.

A strange but not unpleasant feeling comes over Maka. Her eyes droop, hazy dreams already forming in her mind. She tries to fight it but with a shuddering yawn, she submits and allows her eyes to flutter shut.

* * *

The sun beats against Maka's eyes relentlessly, rousing her from her dreamless sleep. Stretching lazily, she feels the soft velvet of a blanket covering her body. She squints her eyes against the light and takes a furtive look at her surroundings.

She can only be in what she assumes is Blair's home. Sunlight streams in through a large window from across the room, reflecting off the top of the table in front of the window. Built into the wall next to the window is a hearth, a fire crackling inside it. A large cauldron bubbles merrily, giving off a fragrant aroma that makes Maka's stomach rumble loudly.

Maka pushes the heavy blanket off of her and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. She slides off the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Oh, you're awake!" Blair chirps, emerging from a small hallway. "I thought you were going to sleep the whole day away."

Maka shrugs, memories of yesterday choking her words. Her stomach gives another impatient gurgle.

"Hungry?" Blair asked cheerfully. "Come along, little kitten."

Silently, Maka follows Blair. Her stomach clenches when she spies her bag and book resting on the table she noticed earlier. She wants nothing to do with her magic ever again.

As if on cue, Kami's words echo in her ears as Maka slides into a chair.

* * *

_"Your duty is always to your magic," Kami said sternly as she finished jotting down the last rune on a tattered sheet of paper. The ingredients for Maka's cake for her seventh birthday appear on their kitchen counter._

_Maka swung her legs once from where she sat on the counter. "Why?" she asked curiously, watching Kami measure and sift the flour._

_Kami answered Maka's question with a question. "How is our magic possible, Maka?"_

_"From the universe itself," Maka said proudly, remembering the lesson her mother gave her the other day. "We capture the unusable energy around us and use it to power our spells." _

_"Correct," Kami said with a faint smile, pouring the flour into the bowl. She grabbed an egg and rapped it against the bowl. "And do you know anyone else other than you and I that can do that?"_

_Maka pursed her lips for a moment, thinking hard. "No," she said slowly. "Why?"_

_"You know how some people are born with freckles and some aren't?" Kami said. Maka nodded. "Well," Kami said, reaching for the sugar, "That's how it is for us. Except there's only a few of us born at a time."_

_"Uh, huh," Maka furrowed her brow, things not quite adding up. "But how does that my magic my first duty?"_

_"Not only is it your legacy," Kami said, stirring the ingredients together. "But it's the only thing that will keep you safe."_

_"Like from those people we ran away from a long time ago?" Maka asked._

_Kami looked up, eyes widening in surprise. "When did you figure that out?"_

_"I'm seven." Maka hopped off the counter and started rummaging for the candles she made earlier. "I'm not a little kid anymore, Mama."_

_Kami scooped her up in a hug. "No, I suppose you aren't." She squeezed Maka once and then released her. "Promise me you won't give up your magic, no matter what happens."_

_Maka nodded. "I promise."_

* * *

Maka bites her bottom lip, her teeth worrying a groove onto her skin. It was her magic that got her mother killed, she is sure of that. That's enough to make her never want to practice her magic again. On the other hand, the last thing she wants is to go against her mother's wishes. She bites down harder on her lip, tasting blood as her teeth break through the fragile barrier of her skin.

"Food's ready!" Blair announces, plopping a plate chock full of food in front of Maka. "Eat up!"

Distracted from her thoughts, Maka looks down at the table and gasps. For good reason, the sun's rays were reflecting so brightly off the table.

The table is covered in etching of a forest in hues so bright that they physically hurt Maka's eyes. Yet she can't look away. Not only is the etching so well-wrought that they seem lifelike, they're _moving._

Near Maka's plate, a silvery-white unicorn chases a nymph, eyes rooted on the apple the nymph dangles teasingly from her hand. Mouth open in wonder, Maka gently strokes the table top. It feels like as soft as silk but also remarkably durable. She feels rather than hears Blair taking a seat next to her, entranced by the all the detail.

"You don't want the food to get cold, do you, little kitten?"

Maka can't seem to tear her eyes away from a phoenix sunbathing in the uppermost branches of a tree. The pull of the etching is stronger than the gravity that pulls at her feet. "Huh?"

Blair hums a little tune. The beauty of the table doesn't change but the irresistible need to look at it fades. Maka blinks a few times. "What kind of magic was that?" she demands eagerly.

"Song magic," Blair purrs. "Without my little spell right now, you would've been forced to stare at it forever."

Maka looks back down at the table, picking up her fork. "My mother told me how song magic could make beautiful things but she never told me song magic could make something so dangerous."

"A lot of people look down on us Song Mages for that," Blair says matter-of-factly. With a soft poof, she transforms back into a cat and laps at a bowl of milk in front of her. She looks up, licking excess milk from her whiskers. "But beauty is a good disguise for deadly things." Blair gives her a sly smile. "Isn't that right, Word Mage?"

Maka intakes sharply and promptly chokes on the mouthful of pancake in her mouth. Blair watches her serenely as Maka gulps down half of her orange juice, massaging her throat. "How did you know?" Maka asks, coughing weakly.

Blair props her chin on the back of her paw, tail moving lazily back and forth. "Song Mages are incredibly perceptive to any kind of magic around them. Kind of like picking on a wavelength. And yours is incredibly strong for someone your age."

"My mother taught me," Maka says proudly. "She i-was the best Word Mage I knew."

Thankfully, Blair chooses not to notice Maka's awkward verb change. "You must be very dedicated to your magic then," she says.

Maka just shrugs, conflicted feelings from before returning.

Blair changes back into a human and pulls the black book from where it rested on the table. "You must be wanting this then."

"No." Maka ducks her head and proceeds to stuff her face full of food, avoiding eye contact with Blair.

"No, what?" Blair asks keenly.

Maka swallows her food. "It got my mother killed!"

"A book killed your mother?" Blair says, raising an eyebrow.

"No, it's-I," Maka gives up for a moment, searching for the right words to say. "It's my fault."

Blair doesn't say anything but tilts her head to one side.

The words come out slow and grudgingly from Maka, like ice thawing out. As she speaks, she realizes how much she doesn't know. Who were the people who came after her yesterday? Were they the same people that came after her seven years ago? Why did they want her when her mother was a much more competent Word Mage than her?

These questions ignite a fire in Maka, white-hot anger melting the iron vice that grief locked her in. She clenches and unclenches her fists. "I want them to _pay_," she finishes.

"And you're the one that's going to make them?" Blair says lightly.

Maka pushes her plate away from her, appetite gone. "And why shouldn't I?"

"One, you have no idea who you're going after," Blair says, twirling a finger around a lock of her hair. "But more importantly, do you really want to make a mockery of your mother's sacrifice?"

Crossing her arms, Maka sets her face stubbornly. "I want justice."

"You want revenge," Blair corrects her. "And you'll most likely die in the process." She raises a hand against Maka's half-formed protest. "You're more than welcome to live with me, little kitten, but not if you're determined to get yourself killed."

She gives a little sigh at Maka's unconvinced face, changing back into a cat. "Then again, I'm only a cat, what do I know?" With a disgruntled meow, Blair hops off the table. The door to the house opens of its own accord and Blair pads out without a second look at Maka.

Maka lets out a frustrated groan. She rests her head against the cool surface of the table, trying to quiet the conflicting voices in her head. Maka idly traces the outline of an oak tree with her fingers, wondering what her mother would say if she could see the table. She'd probably be amazed-Kami had always been impressed with all kinds of magic.

She straightens up suddenly, pulling the black book and her bag toward her. She rummages through the bag, pulling out her ink pot and quill.

She untwists the cap in one fluid motion and balances the quill in one hand, pursing her lips thoughtfully. Opening the black book to a blank page, she dips the quill into the ink once and begins to write whatever runes pop into her head.

It's dangerously silly to write a spell with no clear idea in mind, she knows. The equivalent of a child's scribbles with the ability to blow the house up. But there's something Maka desperately wants to see.

If this jumbled mess of a spell works, then it's a sign that she's really her mother's daughter and she'll stay. If it doesn't, then it's the last spell she'll ever write and she'll leave.

She ignores the logical part of her mind that's screaming at her and finishes the spell with a flourish. Dropping the quill on the table, she massages the burgeoning cramp in her hand and waits.

The wet ink shines dully against the creamy white of the paper. Maka's heart sinks as the seconds tick by and nothing happens.

She's about to get up when the runes glow gold. Her breath catches in her throat. The runes glow brighter and brighter until she has to put a hand in front of her eyes.

Maka waits a minute and then carefully lowers her hand. She gasps, heart thudding loudly in her chest.

Delicate ice crystals float above the page, gleaming like diamonds. But it's the image they form that brings tears to Maka's eyes.

It's a mural of her three year old self and her mother standing in front of the house she used to call home, the day they finally stopped running. She remembers the day vividly, how she watched in wonder as her mother brought the house into being through magic alone.

Eyes wide, she lifts her hand to touch her mother's face.

The mural holds for a moment. Then, her mother disintegrates under her fingers, the ice collapsing into itself. The resulting mist wafting onto her hand feels as gentle as a kiss.

Maka smiles, tears sliding down her face. "All right, Mama."

When Blair comes back in, Maka's cleared the table and is quietly waiting.

Blair crosses her arms. "Well, little kitten?"

Maka pulls at her dress. "Is there somewhere I can wash up?" She gives Blair a tentative smile. "And a change of clothes too? I'm going to be staying here for while."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before but I'll be switching POV's every now and then but I'll be sure to make it clear when I do. Happy reading!

Lunar

* * *

Soul peers out from the left wing of the stage. Even though the amphitheater is nearly empty, save for his parents sitting in the front row, he feels the familiar apprehension knotting his stomach, threatening to forcibly remove the little of breakfast he ate this morning.

He tries not to think about what's about to happen, focusing on his plans later today. He takes several deep breaths. _Whatever happens today, at least you have that,_ he reminds himself in a vain effort to slow down his racing heart.

He nearly jumps a foot in the air when someone claps a hand on his shoulder. Soul scowls when he sees his brother grinning down at him.

"You ought to be a dancer if you could jump that high," Wes teases.

Scowling, Soul looks away to hide the growing blush on his face. "Go bug someone else, Wes."

"Now is that any way to treat your loving brother?" Wes says in mock offense. "You should show some respect."

Soul narrows his eyes at Wes. "I'll show some respect to my elder brother when his voice stops cracking like a whip."

"Oh, you'll pay for that!" Wes playfully puts Soul in headlock.

Soul struggles to break free. "You're going to make my hair all messy!"

"That's what you get!" Wes answers.

"Boys!"

Wes releases Soul as Thomas, their music instructor, comes up from behind them. Wes bows low while Soul straightens the suit he was stuffed into earlier this morning.

Thomas returns Wes' bow as far as his old back can allow and gives Soul a curt nod.

Soul scoffs inwardly at Thomas' obvious affection for Wes and disdain for himself.

Then again, Wes' magic has never accidentally trapped their music instructor in a vortex of screaming shadows, something that forever sealed Soul and Thomas' mutual dislike for each other.

Thomas raises a wooden case he was holding. "Your violin, Master Wes." He turns to Soul, the look in his eyes turning slightly frosty. "And your piano is tuned to perfection, Master Soul."

"Excellent!" Wes says. "Come on, Soul! This is going to be our first duet in years." He gives Soul a smile and heads onto the stage.

Soul moves to follow him but Thomas stops him. "We won't be having any mishaps today, will we?"

"I haven't had any _mishaps_ in a while," Soul says, glaring at Thomas' wrinkled face.

"Good," Thomas says smoothly. "You're perfectly aware that your parents, Lady Aria and Lord Hadrian, are out there and expect to see your magic under perfect control so keep it that way…"

Soul lets his mind wander, thinking if he has to spend another second listening to Thomas prattle on, he'll throw up on his shoes then and there and just skip the performance.

Finally, Thomas stops and lets Soul pass.

Soul glances at his parents as he takes his place on the piano bench. They sit directly in front of him. His mother, Lady Aria, wears a red dress, which makes her distinctive red eyes stand out even more. She looks even more nervous than Soul feels yet she gives him a bright smile when he makes eye contact with her. Lord Hadrian, his father, smiles as well, his white hair winking silver in the amphitheater's light.

As soon as Soul is seated, Wes begins to play. Soul thrums his fingers against the bench. His part comes later in the song but he wishes that he could just get it over with now. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his parents listen with rapt expressions.

Wes plays his violin without any fear at all. Delicate and cheerful notes float into the air, weaving into a mesmerizing melody. Soul can't see Wes but he can imagine what he looks like from all the times Soul has seen Wes practice. Head slightly bowed, eyes closed and a serene look on his face like the music calmed his very soul.

Music has rarely meant peace for Soul.

_Don't think about it, don't think about it, _he chants in his mind as he waits for his cue to enter. Unbidden, an image flashes briefly before his eyes. Teeth sharper than his, contrasted against scarlet red skin and onyx black eyes that brim with malice.

All Soul wants right now is to run off the stage and never come back. But his parents won't give him up for a lost cause yet and Soul won't disappoint them by becoming a full-fledged failure.

Bright light above Soul's head catches his attention. The light bends and wraps according to Wes' music, making a magnificent display of the Evans' manor and the estate around it. Soul grins as two particular blobs of light take shape into two white-haired boys, chasing each other across the grounds. A mere three years older than Soul, thirteen year old Wes is already the master of creating lifelike illusions.

A slight hiss emanates from their music instructor, standing anxiously in the wings. The light forms of Soul and Wes run into the manor and disappear. Apparently, Wes' little show wasn't on the program.

Soul smiles. Wes can read Soul better than anyone and also knows how to calm Soul's nerves better than anyone.

Wes' music softens to a just a whisper, signaling Soul that it was his time to enter the song.

_You can do this, _Soul thinks determinedly as he began to play. His music doesn't sound nearly as beautiful as Wes' does. It's harsher on the ears and darker than Wes' music. Their instructor has tried countless times to change Soul's style but he's failed each time. It's just who Soul is.

He peers up, anxious to see if the illusion he envisioned is up there or _something else_.

To his immense relief, the town that lies just outside their estate is slowly shaping into existence. Elated, he throws himself more fully into the song, Wes following along to his beat. As he gets into further and further into the song without any mishaps, Soul allows himself to hope that maybe he'll get to get through one practice without any screw ups on his part.

He lets himself sneak a peek at his parents. His mother is beaming, joy and relief in equal parts practically radiating from her, while his father wears a slight but proud smile.

Soul bites down on his own grin and plays with even more fervor, without restrain. His music grows louder and louder as the crescendo of the song comes closer, drowning out Wes.

He doesn't notice the orb of murky darkness until it's floating right in front of front of him. Before he can do anything other than blink, two red hands push out of the darkness and latch onto Soul's hands.

Soul yells in shock as his mother cries out. Even though the illusion doesn't have any substance at all, it feels like something is weighing his hands down. He tries to stop playing but a strange feeling spreads through his hands, forcing him to continue.

"Play, Soul, play." The creature that Soul named Oni emerges from the darkness, a wide grin splitting his face. "You've got an audience to please."

Without his prompting, Soul's hands play faster and faster, going from loud to earsplitting. Shadows peel from the wall, coming to life.

Soul can hear his instructor yelling at him to react like they practiced but Soul can do nothing. He has enough trouble keeping Oni from taking control of his entire body.

He hunches over in concentration, sweat pouring down his face as he stares down Oni.

"The question is, Soul," Oni says, tilting his head to one side, "why are you fighting so hard?"

Soul ignores him, pushing harder against Oni's hold.

Oni raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You try hard for such a weak little boy." As if to drive his point home, Oni pushes his hold on Soul past his hands and up his arms.

"No!" Soul gasps. A maniacal cackle rips from his mouth. Soul bows low to the keyboard, panting hard. He's lost complete control of what he's playing, a riotous refrain over and over again.

He sees his mother trying to pull free from his father, her usually tan skin pale from distress. His father looks no better. It feels as though someone stabbed his heart. Soul closes his eyes, feeling his resolve slip with each passing second. _I'm sorry I disappointed you,_ he thinks.

"Hang on, Soul." Wes' voice cuts through the cacophony of noise in Soul's mind. With a heavy effort, Soul lifts his head. Somehow, Wes is sitting at the piano bench with him. He lifts his violin to his shoulder and begins to play. A bead of light gathers around Wes' violin, the very opposite of Oni's darkness.

Oni hisses but doesn't release his grip on Soul.

Wes continues to play. The melody he weaves is quiet but it steadily builds, countering Soul's wild playing, until the beads of light have become the size of Oni. With a few notes, Wes releases the light, dispelling the shadows that Oni released.

"Looks like the fun is over," Oni sneers as he begins to fade away. "But don't worry, Soul. I'll always be right here."

With a final harrowing note from Wes, Oni disappears completely. Soul collapses on the keyboard, breathing hard. He feels his brother wrap his arms around him and pull him up, murmuring reassurances.

"Let me go!" Soul hears his mother break free from his father and run towards her sons, heels clattering against the floor.

Lady Aria practically vaults herself on the stage. She scoops Soul from Wes, brushing back the hair stuck to Soul's face. "Does anything hurt?" she asks Soul breathlessly, pulling away so she can examine him.

Soul nods, trying to untangle the words caught in his throat and failing. He feels too fatigued to do much of anything other than rest in his mother's arms.

Beyond them, his father is arguing with Thomas.

"You told us he had gotten better," Lord Hadrian says accusingly, his brown eyes darkening in anger. He gestures towards Soul and the piano. "What was that?"

"H-he had gotten better, my lord," Thomas stammers. "The stress of performing in front of an audience may have gotten to him, is all. Perhaps with more practice-"

"No."

Soul looks up at his mother. She looks livid, more angry than the time Soul and Wes ruined her favorite tapestry.

"This is the last time I will see him put through this," she says flatly.

"Aria, let's not overreact. This might be something he can still grow out of," his father says soothingly. "One bad perform-"

"Bad performance?" His mother's eyes flash dangerously. "A bad performance is hitting the wrong notes, forgetting the sheet music. Soul's own magic trying to take control of him isn't a bad performance. It is a disaster."

With a sudden movement, she stands, Soul still in her arms, and strides off the stage. Wes scrambles off the bench, at their mother's heels.

At any other time, Soul would have thrown a fit at being treated like a baby but he can hardly find the strength to keep his eyes open, much less protest. He juggles between fighting to stay awake and dozing off, the steady rhythm of his mother's pace lulling him closer to sleep.

Eventually the sleep pulling his eyelids shut wins and Soul drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Soul wakes up to the glow of the setting sun. He sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes. His image, reflecting faintly in the window, shows how that he looks as terrible as he feels. His tan skin looks washed out and pale, his white hair sticking up everywhere. The red eyes he inherited from his mother stare dully at him.

He breaks the staring contest between himself and his reflection, wondering if he could just slip back to sleep.

A voice startles him. "How are you feeling?"

Soul looks for the source of the voice. Wes sits on a chair next to Soul's bed. Judging on the fact that he hadn't changed from the suit he was wearing for their performance, it looks like he's been there the whole afternoon.

Looking at him brings back the memories from earlier today. Soul pulls his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them. "I'm fine."

To his relief, Wes does not call him out on his blatant lie but nods instead, leaning back in his chair.

They sit there in silence for a few minutes. Soul winces as his mind insists on replaying every memory of his performance in excruciating detail. "Where is Mother?" he asks to distract himself.

Wes looks uncomfortable. "Uh, talking with Father probably."

Soul feels his face burn, embarrassment and shame sucker punching his stomach. Then he looks out his window again, suddenly remembering his urgent need to go to town. He throws back the covers and hoists himself out of bed. "I have to go."

Wes moves quicker than Soul anticipates, blocking him from the door. "No way," he says, shaking his head. "Mother said she'd skin me alive if she saw you up and moving."

"Then just say you fell asleep and when you woke up, I was gone," Soul says, glowering at Wes. He feints to the left and tries to veer around Wes.

"Nice try," Wes chuckles, grabbing Soul around the waist.

Soul tries to squirm out of Wes' grasp. "I've got things to do, lemme go!"

Wes lets go of Soul but doesn't move from the door. "What are you going to do? Try to convince Mother to let you play again?"

Soul tries not to pout, crossing his arms. "Right, because that worked out real well."

"You know it's not your fault?" Wes asks suddenly.

Soul sighs impatiently. "It's my magic that made Oni. And I'm not strong enough to control him. So now I want to do something else with my magic that won't risk conjuring him up." He looks pleadingly at Wes. "And if you don't let me go now, I'm never going to have this chance again!"

His brother stares at him for what feels like forever. He sighs, moving aside. "If Mother finds out, she's going to kill you and me."

Soul gives his brother a rare hug. "Thank Wes!" Then, he dashes out of the room as fast as his legs can carry him.

* * *

The sun has long set by the time Soul makes it to the Weapon Mage's house. He pounds on the door, praying that Sid won't be too angry.

The door opens and a short, blue-haired boy peers suspiciously at Soul. "Where were you today?" a squeaky voice booms.

"Hello to you too, Black*Star," Soul says, dodging the question.

"You were supposed to visit earlier," Black*Star sniffs.

"I, uh, couldn't sneak out of the castle," Soul lies.

"Excuses," Black*Star scoffs.

A woman in goggles and blue coveralls comes up behind Black*Star. "Who's at the door, Black*Star?"

"Hello, Mira," Soul says quickly. "I wanted to talk with Sid."

Mira pulls off her goggles and releases her black hair from the ponytail she had it in, staring at Soul with her crystal blue eyes. "He waited for you earlier this afternoon," she says, frowning.

"I know, I'm sorry," Soul says, ducking his head. "I wouldn't have left him waiting if I had had a choice."

Mira sighs. "Come on in then."

Soul enters the house. The room is a mix of Sid and Nygus' workshop next door, various weapons strewn about on an iron table in one corner while a haphazardly kitchen lies in the other corner.

Angela, the baby girl Sid and Nygus took in along with Black*Star, gurgles happily at Soul from where she sits in her high chair by the kitchen table.

Soul moves to follow Nygus to the kitchen but Black*Star latches onto Soul, dragging him away to sit at the weapons table. He talks a mile a minute, proudly showing off his work in the weapons he's worked on.

He's just finished explaining the finer details of the mechanics of a flute-sword he helped craft when Sid enters from a side room.

"Hello, Sid," Soul says, rising from the table.

The Weapons Mage raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, faded burn scars from run-ins with the forge standing out against his dark brown skin. "You're lucky I'm a nicer man than most and I didn't give your scythe to the traders that came this afternoon," he says by way of greeting. Sid gives Soul a slight smile to show that he's joking. "You had me thinking you changed your mind."

"Of course not," Soul exclaims.

Black*Star interrupts. "Wait, change his mind about what?"

Sid laughs. "Of the things that have changed since we found you, your mouth certainly has not changed. Go mind Angela while Nygus goes to close up the shop."

Black*Star grumbles but slides out of seat and heads across the room.

"Follow me," Sid says to Soul. He turns and heads back to the room he came out of.

Sid opens the door and lets Soul enter first.

Soul takes a quick look around the room. It's less of a room than a miniature version of Sid and Nygus' shop. A small forge dominates one end of a wall while tools lie neatly on a rack on the adjacent wall.

What catches his eye, however, are two scythes lying on a metal table. The snath is gray while the blade is black and red, separated by a zigzag line.

The other one is black and white. Winglike extensions decorate the where the snath meets the blade. What really captivates him, however, is the blade of the scythe. Piano keys line all the way across the blade.

He gravitates toward the table, mouth slightly ajar. As he reaches out to touch the piano scythe, he feels Sid pull him back.

"I thought you'd like that one," Sid grins. "But no touching."

Soul scowls slightly but doesn't argue for now. "I thought you promised to make me a scythe, not two."

"I didn't make this beauty," Sid says, looking at the piano scythe with reverence. "The traders that visited me today said they found this out in an abandoned wagon out in the wilderness. I thought this would suit you."

"Then I can use it?" Soul asks eagerly, reaching out for the scythe again.

Sid bats his hand away again. "Now, you're going to hurt my feelings." He holds out the black and red scythe to Soul. "You're going to use this one. There are keys much like your piano in the handle. Won't give you as much power but it'll let you wield your magic at the same time."

Soul opens his mouth to argue but Sid cuts him off. "Didn't you tell me you had problems with your magic. At least with the illusion part of it?"

The events from today dance in front of Soul's eyes. "Yes," he mumbles.

"Then," Sid says, placing the black and red scythe in Soul's hands, "you train with this one first, improve your combat skills and _then_ you can use the piano scythe." His voice softens. "I wouldn't do this for any rich little kid so you better not prove me wrong."

Soul wraps his hands around the scythe's handle. He gives it an experimental twirl, hitting a few notes. A weak sound vibration pulsates from the blade. He revels in the freedom of not having to funnel his music into something it's not, of not having to be ashamed of what it is.

He's finally standing on his own two feet.

Soul bows low to Sid. "I won't let you down."


End file.
